


My Memories are My Cages

by sarcastic_oatmeal



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 07:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6946267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcastic_oatmeal/pseuds/sarcastic_oatmeal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will the circle be unbroken?<br/>By and by, by and by,</p>
<p>Is there another home awaiting?<br/>In the sky, in the sky.</p>
<p>Booker Dewitt, the man of many worlds.  A stone-hearted facade, not many could guess the man was succumbing to memories, his guilt ripping apart his psyche. After fighting through Columbia, Booker chose to go into a different lighthouse, with a glimpse of what his life looked to an outsider.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

_Lives, lived, will live_

“Push, push girl. I can see his head. Take a deep breath, Clara, and push!” The midwife cried from her post at the end of the bed. The young woman was eager to help this along, her first birth without the head midwife hovering over her. But she was also scared, the patient was losing a lot of energy and the baby wasn’t coming out. 

Frazzled and exhausted, Clara gave the towel another tug as she pushed again. The usually beautiful lady, with dark mahogany hair and brilliant green eyes, had lost her luster. Her hair was flat and tangled, her eyes diminishing with every push. Sweat was rolling down her head, and Clara was struggling to remain conscious. Anger and fear rolled in her mind; where was the baby’s father? Abandoned in the dead of night, with nothing but a pair of boots and a blanket, Clara was furious. And terrified, who would watch the child if she couldn’t? A final push, and she blacked out.

“Miss, miss?” A splash of cold water brought Clara back to the land of the living. The midwife was holding a moving bundle of linen.  
“It’s a boy, miss.” The bundle was laid in Clara’s weak arms, and a shiny face peered out of it.

“Look at you. You have my eyes and your daddy’s strong chin. You’re going to grow up and witness amazing things, little one.”

“Miss, what would you like to name the child?” The midwife implored while dabbing Clara with a wet towel. 

“His name is Booker. He’ll go to great heights and equally great depths.” Clara said with a small smile. Suddenly, the room was spinning and fading. As she closed her eyes for the final time, she realised her baby would be left in a world unkind to him. After all, he was part Native American…

*****************************************************************************************

The bed had been cleared of the young woman’s body, the blood scrubbed off the mattress, the tiles mopped. The only loose end was the baby, left in the linen. He was a strange child, as he hadn’t cried yet. Not when he came out of the womb, nor when he felt the life leave his mother. The midwife was unsure what to do with him, as she was a young white woman and the child had the composition of a savage. The talk, the talk was all she could think of. But then she held the child, she felt the strength of one so young. 

“Ida, your shift is over! Find a home for the child, and get some rest!” The head midwife cried from her post. Ida walked out of the midwife house, baby in hand. She didn’t have a lot to give the child, but she would raise the child to become a man his mother would be proud of.


	2. Chapter Two

_One thing I've learned: if you don't draw first, you don't get to draw at all._

The year was 1880, and the animosity in the U.S was high. Tribes of Native Americans were fighting to take their land back, and some whites were trying to get their slaves back. Blacks were seen as taboo, Native Americans were seen as rebels, and any white man who was seen with either was to be stoned by the masses.

Booker Dewitt had no idea anything was happening in the country, in fact he was more concerned with his first day of school. Walking along the sidewalk alone, Booker was amazed at the city. He had only been to the city with Ida whenever they needed something they couldn’t get from their farm.

As he approached the school house, he saw a crowd of boys skipping rocks along the sidewalk. The leader, a blonde stick of a boy, was sitting on the steps, goading the boys to get farther and farther. Booker approached the steps, lunch pail in hand, and called to the boy.

“Hey, I’m Booker, what’s your name?”

The boy looked down at Booker and sneered. “I know you ain’t talking to me, Injun boy. Why don’t you run along and go back to your squaw lover,” The other boys began to surround Booker, and one grabbed his arm. “Why don’t we teach him how we feel about Injins taking our stuff, aye boys?” 

The leader jumped up and landed a blow to Booker’s stomach, then a knee to the head. The other boys began jumping on him, ripping his new shirt and destroying his lunch pail. Booker tried to fight back, but one had sat on his stomach, effectively blocking him from getting up.

“Tommy Watson, you leave that boy alone right now, or I’m telling Daddy!” A shrill voice raised above the ruckus of the beating, and everyone stopped in their tracks. Some boys turned from Booker to face the voice.

A small girl, dressed in overalls and hair done in pigtails, was the source of the voice. Hands on hips and a defiant look on her face, she looked at Tommy. “You know how Daddy don’t like when you beat up the Injuns!” 

“Oh Daddy got his head in the clouds, these Injuns ain’t nothin but a stain on our country! Annabelle,  
you go on home right now!” 

“No! You leave him alone!” Annabelle moved in front of the downed boy, hands on hips, her stance just begging for someone to move her.

“You boys get on in here, now! School’s a starting.” called the schoolmaster from the doorway.  
Booker got up, dusting the gravel off his trousers, and ambled up the steps.

“Not you, Injun. You’ve caused enough trouble, go on home.” said the schoolmaster, and slammed the door to the school. Booker looked at the door, and felt tears brimming in his eyes. Determined not to cry in front of the little girl who saved him, he sniffled and kicked the door. Climbing down the stairs, he looked for the girl, but she was nowhere to be seen. Shrugging, Booker headed back to Ida’s farm, lunch pail dragging behind him.


	3. Chapter Three

_Do you ever get used to it? The killing...  
Faster than you can imagine._

He was sixteen, a young man built well after years of working on Ida’s farm. Smart too, since Ida had the neighbors, the Luteces, homeschool the boy. All in all, life was looking up for the boy.

Then Ida died. Pneumonia, the doctors said. But when Ida passed so did the income. The bank seized the farm, the Luteces had a child and couldn’t afford to school the child, and the food was running out fast. 

Booker sloshed down the sidewalk, the rain pouring but he couldn’t feel it. The cold biting but he couldn’t feel it. The hunger aching but he couldn’t feel it.  
Stopping on a lamppost to rest, Booker looked around. Men were carrying their ladies’ umbrellas, the buggies were slowly going down the street, the ration house closed for another day. 

“Damn.” Booker mumbled as he squinted at the ration house. The windows boarded up, the door nailed down, the words “Condemned” written across the walls, the last hope for food was dashed.

Booker shook his head, he’d have to start stealing to survive. Turning, he nearly ran into an army general. “Sorry.”

“Aye you look like a man with no hope. We can fix that. Here,” the man handed Booker a flyer for the U.S army “think about joining the army, it’s a noble cause.” 

Booker stared at the flyer, ignoring the man’s rambling. The Seventh Cavalry Regiment graced the flyer, with large words such as “Nobles Fighting for Our Land.” However Booker was more interested in the small lettering at the bottom: “Income and food given to all volunteers.” 

Maybe there was hope after all.

******************************************************************************  
“Dewitt, front and center!” called the sergeant. Booker made his way to the front of his squad, knees shaking slightly. 

“I have to ask you boy, why’d you join the army?” The sergeant, a thick man with gray hair and a voice to scare the snow off of the mountains they were currently stationed in, leered down from his horse.  
“Don’t cha know this is a war for fighting Injuns?”

Booker looked up at the sergeant, willing his answer to escape his lips. “Sir, yes sir! I wanted to make my country proud,” Booker had long since learned to not say he joined it because he could feel his bones through his skin, or that when the wind blew he felt it in every bone. “but sir I don’t understand why I can’t…” Booker trailed off, as he vividly remembered the day 10 years ago. The beating because of his deposition, the names that he was called, how he was turned away from the only school in a ten mile radius. 

“Why you can’t what boy? Be trusted to take on the Injuns when you’re part one yourself?” The sergeant spit at Booker, distrust evident in his face. Rumblings from his squad reached Booker’s ears, but he couldn’t hear them as he processed these memories. Him, part Native American? Ida always called him a ‘lover of the divine gift of God.’

“Sir, I ain’t no Injun boy. And I’ll prove it.” Booker said with determination evident in his voice. 

******************************************************************************  
Booker had been living in Ida’s farm ever since he got it back from the bank. Currently, he was sitting in her old rocking chair, reading a letter he found in her desk.

_Booker,_  
_You’re reading this, which means I’ve passed. There’s so much I wish I could tell you, my boy. One thing is you’re not even my boy..  
I made you call me Ida instead of mommy because I am not your mother. Your mother died in childbirth. A beautiful woman, she gave her life for you. I am, in a sense, glad she passed, because then she couldn’t see what this country was doing to her people.._

_Yes your mother was Native American…._

Booker couldn’t see the rest of letter, as his mind was filled with flashbacks of Wounded Knee. He remembered burning teepees with families inside, hearing the screams of the children. He remembered the joy his comrades had as they watched him scalp hundreds of men and women. He remembers the nickname he hated, given to him by Slate, “The White Injun.” He remembers the pride his commanding sergeant held in his face as he was promoted to “Corporal Dewitt.”

Booker crumpled and threw the letter into a corner, and went into the kitchen. Ida was always against drinking, but Ida wasn’t always forthcoming was she? Booker headed back to the rocking chair, whiskey in one hand and Bible in the other. Maybe he could atone for his sins through faith, or at least drown them out through drink.


	4. Chapter Four

_You think a dip in the river is gonna wash away the things I've done?_

He heard about Preacher Wettings’ baptisms, how they were offered to everyone, even believers of the faith, to wash away their sins. He heard about the mutterings in the city, how he was seen as scandalous for offering them to the savages: the blacks and the Injuns. But he was the only preacher who didn’t judge, and Booker was ready to be washed of his sins.

It took two months to save up enough money to make the trip. It took two days to travel to brook where Wettings said to meet his congregation. It took two hours to work up the courage to actually go and get baptised. And it took two seconds to deny and run away from faith, as no dip in the river would resolve Booker Dewitt’s sins.

******************************************************************************  
The man came up to him as he was nursing his second bottle of whiskey. It had been a rough month, the memories always replaying in an endless cycle of vengeance and bloodshed. Booker was on his last dime, having wasted the rest on ways to ignore the memories. 

“Booker Dewitt? We need your help..” The man said as he slid a folder in front of the man. The word “Confidential” was blazoned on the front. Booker squinted at the man, trying to recognize him. No such luck.

“It’s a simple job, Mr. Dewitt. Whenever the workers come to striking, we need someone to make them agreeable, so to speak..’’

Booker signed the contract before the bottle was cleared. 

******************************************************************************  
The work was hard for most, but not for Booker. It kept his mind clear, clear of the screams of Wounded Knee. True, he kept to...unconventional ways. But it was worth it, the pay was good and the job gave him opportunities.

Like meeting her, the beauty from across the hall. He had sold Ida’s farm within his first month at the agency and moved into a two room apartment. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it kept the rain off his head. 

She had arrived about three months after him, arguing with a skinny man with a mop of blonde hair. He had never seen a beauty like her. Wild hair like the darkest flavor of chocolate, eyes brighter than the sky, her face an image not even the greatest artist could hope to achieve, Booker fell for her. Hard.

“Um excuse me, miss.” Booker said one day, flowers in hand. His nerves were getting the best of him, and he couldn’t remember the correct way of courting a young lady. “I was wondering if ah…” He dropped off when he saw the look of amazement on her face. Booker cursed at himself, he was too low to even think of having her hand.

“Booker? Is that you?”

******************************************************************************  
She had saved him that day at the schoolhouse, and she saved him still. It took him three years to realise   
what atrocities he was committing at the agency. It took him three months to stop having the nightmares. It took him three days to talk to Annabelle about them. And it took three seconds for their lives to change completely during a night of rum and dancing and talking about dreams.

“Push, push girl. I can see his head. Take a deep breath, and push!” echoed a midwife. The same scene, twenty years later. However, Booker was proud to be by his wife’s side as she delivered their child. Her hand fastened tightly around his, she screamed as she pushed out their daughter, their little Anna. The midwife delivered the child to Booker, a screaming bundle of joy she said. However, the child could not distract him from the fact that Annabelle was losing too much blood, her grip on her loosening, the blue eyes fading into a grey, and then shutting forever. 

The midwife never saw a man beside himself with grief like Booker. The town heard his screams as he begged for Annabelle to stay for him, for her not to abandon him with his demons, to come back because he could never raise a child by himself. He was a screw up, what if he screwed up Anna’s life too?

The funeral lasted two days, and the neighbors had pityingly offered support to the father. But no one could get up the courage to yank Booker away as he held Anna, staring at a gravestone with the words that would torture him endlessly.

ANNABELLE WATSON  
1876-1894


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOPS I HAVEN"T UPDATED IN FOOOOORRRRREEEEVER

_Bring us the girl and wipe away the debt. ___

__The gambling began three weeks after Annabelle’s death. Booker never won, and the debts started piling up. They had to move to a run down office, with no kitchen, and no bathroom. There was a small room for Anna, and that was the only extra room. But yet, Booker kept gambling. Maybe it was the rush, maybe it was the hope, maybe it was the distraction. But the journey stopped after a couple of casino bodyguards beat the breath out of him in a meat freezer._ _

__The pitying looks from Ms. Saxon hurt, yet not as much as it did when he saw his daughter, Anna, with her hollow cheeks and her hollow cries from her third day without food._ _

__There had to be hope, right?_ _

__******************************************************************************_ _

__The man came 4 months after Booker stopped gambling. Gambling stopped but the debts still piled up. It was rare that there was scrupulous presents, but Booker tried.  
The man said he was an agent of a Mr. Zachary Comstock, who was in need of great assistance._ _

__“You see, Dewitt, Mr.Comstock has pressing need for an heir, and he has interest in yours…” The man stated, hands behind his sharply_ _

__“Why doesn’t he have his own.” Booker crooned from his position on his bed, whiskey in hand. Anna was asleep, and his memories was roaring their ugly heads._ _

__“Trust me sir, Comstock has tried.” The agent said, and moved closer to the bed. “Sir, Comstock will offer a good, I dare say better life than this,” he waved around the dingy apartment, “ on my honour as a Lutece.”_ _

__Booker squinted at the man, he had no resemblance to the Luteces. But if they could help Anna, and wipe away the debts, maybe he could clean his life together._ _

__“Bring us the girl and wipe away the debt.”_ _

__******************************************************************************_ _

__It was raining, God he hated the rain. But Booker was getting his daughter back one way or another. Three days he thought about it, three days. Three days he followed this “Robert Lutece” around. The third day is where he found her, his Anna, held by a dark haired man. They were standing and staring at a brick wall, waiting._ _

__As Booker ran towards the duo, he saw a portal on a brick wall. A young woman was on the other side, ushering the group. He stared for a bit, but shook out of his reverie and rushed to his daughter._ _

__“Give her back you son of a bitch.” He screamed as he shook the unknown man holding his precious baby. The man shoved Booker away and dashed through the portal._ _

__“Shut it down. Shut down the machine!” The bearded man was screaming as Booker attempted to wrestle back his daughter. Electricity was filling the air around them as the portal began getting smaller and smaller. Quickly ripping his hands away from the circle, Booker watched in horror and shock as Anna was transported through the portal, her pinky catching on the edge as it shut, slicing it off._ _

__“No. No!”_ _


	6. Chapter Six

_There’s always a lighthouse, a man, a city._

 

The sun was streaming through the cracks of the wall, and the man on the bed was shutting them out. Images of his wife and child, draped over a bloody bed in a room where the paint was peeling off the walls, flashed in his head. His lovely Annabelle had the life sucked out of her, her beauty fading as the maggots ate away her skin. The baby wasn’t moving, her lips were blue and fixed in her last expression. Mouth open as she attempted to scream one last time, Booker couldn’t help but notice the bugs flying in and out of his dear daughter. Wanting to rush and help his beloved, Booker found that his legs and arms were bound. He could only watch as time rotted his family away in front of his very eyes.

**_BANG BANG BANG_ **

Booker shot up at the loud noises, dreams still flashing before his eyes. Shaking his head, Booker slowly got up, groaning as he did so. His office hours clearly stated 10 to 10, yet it hardly looked 7 yet. Shuffling around the room and squinting, Booker jostled his desk. Papers and cards fell off, reminding him to pay his part of his debt today. Last time he was late he returned home with several broken ribs.

“Son of a bitch better be a lord or something.” Booker mumbled as he shoved trousers on and grabbed his pistol. Booker meandered over to the down and flung it open. “Can’t you read? Says nothing before 10, tops.”

******************************************************************************

Darkness was all he could see. The pain in the back of his head was persistent, and the thought of cracking his eyes open hurt. The sound of waves and gulls reached his ears as he felt the cool breeze whip around his head. Water sloshed around at his feet, and he took a deep breath in and smelled salt. There were muttering and as Booker bean regaining his strength, he heard a crystal voice float towards him. “Told you he’d be okay, honestly you worry too much brother.”

Booker squinted and the rotating light of a lighthouse filled his eyes. He saw he was on a boat with two raincoat clad figures. They were slowly approaching a dock, and they seemed to be talking about him or to him, he couldn’t tell. Looking through the box on his lap, Booker was confused. A picture of a girl, coordinates to New York, a key with a bird engraved on it, a postcard from Monument Island, and a weird riddle was all in there. Objects with no correlation shoved into a box made for a difficult case. Booker sighed with relief as he saw his pistol and private investigator license was included. Something about rowing was all he heard as they arrived on the dock. Neither moved, they seemed to be waiting for him. Slowly climbing the ladder, Booker felt the full impact of his injuries. The knot of pain in his head was killing him as he shouted “Is anyone meeting me here?”

“I sure hope so, seems an awfully dreadful place to be stranded.” The lady called as the duo rowed away. Booker peered at the lighthouse and begun climbing his way to the door. 

Arriving at the door, Booker noticed a bloody note stating to bring them the girl and wipe away his debt. The girl? Do they mean the girl in the picture? Booker shrugged and pushed open the door, blinded by the light from the inside.


End file.
